


Death Marked

by nightmarekitt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmarekitt/pseuds/nightmarekitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock dies at the end of Reichenach and finds himself making a deal with Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death

.Reaper.

Sherlock was decidedly not pleased.

First of all, jumping off of a building was not how he wanted to go.

Even if his death _was_ to be passed off as a suicide, swan diving off of a skyscraper was so disgustingly plebian.

**Boring.**

Not like Sherlock at all.

Certainly, they all would see that? Oh, but held little hope.

If James Moriarty had not shot himself bloody on the top of that hospital, Sherlock would have haunted the shit out of the conniving little bastard. The world's only Consulting Detective [now deceased] was standing over his dead body, frowning at the crowd of onlookers [mostly a crowd of nurses and doctors from the hospital itself] who had already flocked to the scene, but Sherlock only had eyes for one.

He watched as John wept over the sight of his best friend's dead body – the man was falling to pieces there on the sidewalk, under the eyes of so many unworthy bystanders.

Sherlock felt lost. He closed his eyes, allowing himself a moment's remorse…

Then his eyelids sprung open and his mind raced. He was dead now – done, but he could still think, still see, still feel. All of his five senses seemed to be intact. He glanced down at his own hands, which seemed quite corporeal to himself, but which obviously weren't to the people around him. He reached out and brushed his fingertips over John's shoulder – felt the sensation of cloth against skin, but again, John was oblivious – lost in grief. Sherlock's train of thought tried to crumble beneath a strong wave of emotion.

He wouldn't let it. He pulled away from John, took a few steps back, and let his thoughts rush on – a proverbial river. He was dead, but he was not, which made him what? A ghost?

He laughed sharply, once, and considered the idea. There were cases, here and there, over the years that he had not been able to solve...

_Don't write about the unsolved ones!_

John.

No.

Must think!

Cases, yes. There had been some that rather left him reeling. He usually deleted those, but some were too intriguing to forget.

"Never seen one quite like you before."

A voice: aggressive, male, obviously directed his way. Startled, Sherlock turned. There was a man, an average-looking bloke, staring directly at him. Sherlock's eyes observed, and his mind spat out the facts: late thirties, divorced, athlete. However, his gut was screaming at him that this conclusion was definitely wrong.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked, sounding vaguely amused.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded. "How can you see me?"

"Well, I'm your reaper, mate. Of course, I can see you."

Reaper?

Improbable? Yes. Impossible?

_Apparently not._

"I've come to collect you, Mr. Holmes. Your time has come to an end."

Sherlock frowned and glanced over at John, who was still sobbing on the sidewalk. His heart clenched, and he made a decision. He glanced back at the reaper, frowned.

"No."

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice."

Sherlock was anxious. He didn't have much of a knowledge-bank on reapers, but if he knew one thing, there was always some kind of order in the universe. Food Chain. Chain of Command.

_.Time to test that theory._

"I'd like to speak to your boss," the detective declared.

The reaper appeared to be annoyed by that.

"No one speaks to the boss, mate."

_Ah, I was right. Mental adjustments to the Mind Palace must be made. Renovations, soon, I suspect._

"Well, I'm still not going with you."

The reaper sighed. "Look, please don't make this difficult. It's really quite simple. You come with me to your respective place of death, whether it be paradise or the pit, and I go on about my business. Chop, chop! I have other unfortunate folks to reap, you know."

Sherlock smirked. "I think I'll stay here."

The other man glared. "I will force you, if I must, Mr. Holmes."

_Frustration. Impatience. Assertiveness. Predictability. Reapers are really no different from humans._

"I wonder…what do people normally say when you first meet them?" Sherlock inquired, hoping to distract. To his dismay, it worked, and the reaper started babbling.

_Average intelligence; can escort souls of the dead to heaven or hell; easily manipulated. Conclusion: boring._

"They usually don't know that they're dead, until I tell them. They have a bit of a shocked moment, and then they ask the same question every time…" the reaper was saying.

"’Why?’" Sherlock guessed.

"Indeed." The reaper suddenly grinned. "But then, on rare occasions, I get a weirdo like you."

"How often?" Sherlock goaded.

"Once out of…hell, five hundred?"

_A smaller number than I would have guessed._.

Sherlock rose a brow. "What sort of people are they, usually - the ones who don't ask 'why'?"

"Psychopaths, murderers, scientists, artists, soldiers," the reaper trailed off, like he wasn't going to add anymore, and then he spoke again, "hunters."

"Hunters?"

_Well, that’s puzzling and entirely unspecific._

"Yeah, the hunters are always expecting death. The really strong ones usually try to fight it. I hear that on really rare occasions, they actually succeed. One or two hunters have thrown off Death before."

Sherlock's eyes were locked onto the reapers. "Really? And how does one go about that?"

"No idea mate." He started to walk closer, and Sherlock started to back away. To his surprise, the man before him vanished, and Sherlock suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. He snatched away and spun around.

"It's got to end sometime," the reaper declared and reached forward. Sherlock was mentally reeling. This time, when the reaper’s hand collided with Sherlock's shoulder, they vanished into a spiral of light.

.Death.

Sherlock stumbled when he emerged from what he could only describe as a disconcerting swirling sensation.

"What the bloody-!" the reaper started to say beside him, but cut himself off, upon spotting the old man sitting across from them in what appeared to be some kind of eating establishment. Sherlock watched in mild astonishment as the reaper flushed.

"S-s-sir!" he squeaked, apparently addressing the lone man in the restaurant. "Um, I don't know how we got here. My mistake!"

The figure at the table rose from his seat and offered the reaper a slightly irritated look.

"You have made no mistake, Devon. Be gone, and leave Sherlock to me."

"Yessir!" the man at Sherlock's side said quickly, vanishing shortly after.

Sherlock was left to stare down the thin, surprisingly well-dressed old man in the otherwise empty restaurant, who was now gesturing subtly for Sherlock to take the seat across from him. The world's only consulting detective moved gracefully across the room, watching his new companion with caution and suspicion, before taking a seat. The old man also sat, and started picking at the food on his plate – some kind of Italian dish that Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to identify.

"Would you like something? Finest food in Italy, if I do say so myself."

Sherlock swallowed. Something about this man was utterly disconcerting.

"No, thank you. I prefer not to eat anything at the moment. I am currently contemplating the laws of physics and their obvious redundancies. In any case, I am dead. What would be the point of eating now? I wasn’t overly fond of the activity when I was alive."

The old man smiled and waved his fork lazily in Sherlock's direction. "You may be dead, but I am Death, and here we are, and here I am." He spoke with the dignity of a person who never had to rush, who had all the time in the world. Sherlock watched as the man – _Death_ – took another bite of his fancy pasta, and chewed slowly as he stared at Sherlock, as if making a point.

"So you're the boss," Sherlock said, ignoring the unspoken demand to eat.

Death shrugged it off, and took on an air of amusement. "So I am."

"I want very much not to be dead."

"Many do, but life is precious and death is necessary for balance in the universe. If you had not died today, three others would have taken your place. A fine death, yours is."

"Three others?" Sherlock hissed, latching on to those words.

“Don’t pretend to be an idiot. You know their names – the ones most precious to you. Moriarty spelled it out, did he not?"

John. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock shuddered.

"Yes…so why am I here, then? The reaper had me. My guess is that I am here upon your insistence, and know this – I hate guessing." Sherlock made a disgusted face.

"You," Death began, "are the most intelligent human being that I have seen in a very long time, and yet you are far more interesting than the others."

Sherlock frowned, growing impatient. "Why?"

"Darwin was foolish, Da Vinci was quiet, and Edison never stopped talking."

The consulting detective rolled his eyes. "People never do."

Death suddenly smiled. "That is why I'm going to make you a deal, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," the detective offered, suddenly bubbling with relief. "What sort of deal? How do people normally go about coming back from the dead?"

"There's nothing normal about it," Death huffed. "Demon deals at crossroads. A trade of the soul for ten years and a day with your heartfelt desire – such as bringing a loved one back to life." He explained upon seeing Sherlock's curious look. "Thank God that your doctor doesn't know about that one, eh?"

Sherlock paled and agreed with a sharp nod.

"Death usually disconcerts people. You're taking it surprisingly well."

"To be honest, I'm really only concerned with escaping it," the detective said, then paused shortly, "other ways?"

"The interference of angels," Death added shortly, almost irritably, "or God."

Sherlock waited, trying to wrap his mind around the existence of such beings, while knowing that there just had to be a fourth option.

"Or me," Death finally admitted. "Understand though, I rarely let myself get involved."

"Why is that?"

"Balance. Wars. I have no interest in fighting, Sherlock, but horrible wars are being fought on Earth's soil by hunters and monsters that even you could hardly imagine."

_Hunters, again?_

"What are hunters?"

"It is what a select few humans dare to call themselves. Those humans fight, destroy, and bind evil away for the good of their fellow humans, usually not by choice. Once one becomes aware of the evil things that hide in the shadows, they cannot go back to the lives they knew before."

"Do they make a difference?" Sherlock wondered, thinking of his job as a consulting detective.

"Sometimes," Death said dryly. "A few shine more brightly than the rest."

Sherlock, being Sherlock, picked up on what Death was not saying.

"You're thinking of someone specifically."

Death smiled. "And now we get to the point." He sat down his fork and leaned back in his chair.

"There is a group of horribly clever, horribly powerful, and horribly ancient creatures about at the moment. They are called Leviathans."

"Surely, we have established that they are quite horrible," the detective said smarmily, but his eyes were bright with curiosity.

"Once, the world might have had a chance of stopping them, with the angels running amok and all. I won't go into the details. Basically, someone let the Leviathans out, the creatures who might have been powerful enough to stop them are now too few, and yet it remains true that the Leviathans must be stopped."

"And you refuse to invest yourself in such an endeavor."

Death leaned forward. "This is me – _investing._ "

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, "You're as bad as Lestrade. Have you considered that going after these monsters, as powerful as they are, would likely just get me killed me again? What's the point?"

"You would have a few things to your advantage, including but not limited to a certain Doctor."

Sherlock stiffened. His mouth had gone dry. "Who else?" he demanded roughly, having already made his decision about the whole affair.

"Sam and Dean Winchester, Robert Singer, and a fallen angel by the name of Castiel."

"The Winchester brothers are the best hunters the world has ever known. Robert Singer is their crutch – their father figure who knows more about the supernatural than any man alive. Currently, he is stuck as a ghost haunting the brothers. I will give you the power to revive him. Your first mission, however, will be to help Castiel."

"The fallen angel," Sherlock stated.

"Yes. His grace has been shattered by Lucifer. He's currently occupying a human vessel in a psychiatric ward in America. I will give you the power to repair his vessel as well." Death met Sherlock's eyes. "He will be your most valuable asset, Sherlock. Castiel was just a seraph, but he has proven himself smarter and more courageous than all of the arch angels combined. He's in a mess. That's why I'll be sending you to collect John. He's good with people. I think he'll be able to help Castiel."

"I accept your deal," Sherlock suddenly said.

Death nodded. "I knew you would." He held out a pale hand, and Sherlock shook it eagerly.

.John.

Enough was enough, Lestrade had decided. It was time for an intervention.

It had been three months since the funeral, three months since they put the world's only consulting detective in the ground. Just yesterday, he had stopped by to check on John Watson. It was bloody awful. The man had fallen apart since Sherlock's death.

One look at John - he had lost another ten pounds, there were dark circles under his eyes, he was wrapped up on that ratty sofa in Sherlock's old coat – and he had decided that this couldn't go on. He had spoken to the therapist, who had sadly reported that the man had only finally been able to say it out loud: _Sherlock is dead_. It was too much. If things went on like this for much longer, then John was going to kill himself, either intentionally or unintentionally. It didn't matter. If Sherlock had been alive, he would have throttled them for letting it go this far.

So it was that one late Thursday afternoon that they all came together: Lestrade, Molly, Sarah, Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Mycroft, Donovan, even Anderson. They met at 221B, Mrs. Hudson guiding them inside and upstairs to meet John. He was in pathetic shape, once again. Lestrade's eyes widened when he took note of the fact that the doctor hadn't moved from the sofa since the last time he had been there. John glanced up at them with wide, tired eyes for a long moment, and then quickly looked away. A bitter smile crossed his face.

"I see you're all here to console me."

Harry and Sarah moved forward, sitting on each side of him on the sofa. The rest of the bunch settled themselves across the room, watching John worriedly. John ignored them wholeheartedly for maybe a minute, before letting his eyes fall on Donovan.

"Why did you bring her?" he snarled.

She didn't flinch. "John, I wasn't accusing him simply because he was a prat. Someone had to step up and make the logical conclusion, and as it turned out…it was the truth."

"It wasn't!" John snapped.

"But John," Lestrade cut in, "he even said it to you. He told you himself!"

John withdrew, and his eyes seemed to grow darker. "You don't understand. I knew him. I lived with him. He was lying for some reason. I don't know why, but he was. It was Moriarty."

"Moriarty never existed, remember? It was just some man pretending to be Moriarty!"

John didn't say anything.

"I know you cared very much for him, dear. I did, too, but the proof is there," Mrs. Hudson said sadly. "He was…was…" Her eyes watered.

"I think John's right."

Every eye in the room snapped to Mycroft.

"Of course you do," John added. "Because it's your fault! You gave Moriarty everything he needed to kill…to kill him."

Mycroft looked at the floor.

Lestrade frowned. "What do you mean?"

"We had Moriarty…whoever he was in custody for months. He refused to give us any information unless we gave him information about my brother. The man was disgustingly clever."

Lestrade's eyes widened and the doubts about Sherlock's reputation started trickling in again.

"We'll never know," John said, nearly choking on the words. "Because they're both dead, aren't they?"

The room seemed to grow unnaturally quite at these words. The truth was forever beyond their grasp, it seemed. This must have been how Sherlock felt, when he couldn't solve a mystery, John thought bitterly. His life had literally ceased to have meaning once Sherlock was gone. The pains in his leg had returned with a vengeance. His hand never seemed to stop twitching. He was so drained, tired, and miserable. He would have killed himself already, but guilt kept him living. Mrs. Hudson was already a mess since Sherlock's death. For now, he would wait…maybe a year.

It was terrible, all so terrible, that no one seemed to want to believe him – that there was absolutely no way that Sherlock Holmes could ever be a fake. Even if he had been, you'd still have to be some kind of bloody genius to fool everyone into thinking that he was so smart. It was ridiculous. Why couldn't they see it?

A loud noise sounded from downstairs. Someone had opened the door and was shuffling around at the bottom. They all exchanged glances.

"Er, did you invite someone else, Inspector?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"No…you weren't expecting company?"

She simply looked bewildered. The room was quiet as whoever-it-was started to make his way up the stairs, muttering under his breath for some odd reason. They all started to catch a word now and again: "Death…bloody reapers…angels…"

The stranger stopped at the top of the stairs and froze. He wore a large raincoat, the hood pulled up and hiding his face. It must have been raining pretty hard outside, as he was so soaked that he was creating a puddle on the floor where the water dripped from his clothes. The stranger was very tall and thin, and he was, apparently, observing the room full of people with surprise – judging by the way he had stiffened.

They were all a little too shocked to comment until John drew in a sharp breath and lurched from the couch. He was so wrapped up in Sherlock's old coat that he stumbled a bit, but caught himself at the last instant as he practically flung himself across the room. He stopped about a foot before the stranger, looked up into the face of the man beneath the hood and smiled brightly.

"Hello," he said quietly.

The stranger's posture relaxed marginally and he removed his hood.

"Hello, John."

Donovan screamed. Mrs. Hudson fainted. The rest of the rooms occupants were frozen in their seats, jaws on the floor.

Still smiling, John drew back and punched Sherlock so hard that the man fell about half way down the stairs before he caught himself. When he looked up again, this time clutching his aching jaw, John Watson was glaring at him.

"You stupid son of a bitch! HOW COULD YOU?"

"John, wait!" Sherlock started, but it was too late. Suddenly, Mycroft was dragging him back up the stairs and simultaneously yelling at him. It wasn't long before everyone seemed to be joining in, even Mrs. Hudson who had recovered from her small faint on the sofa. They had been at it for about twenty minutes, and at that point, Sherlock had decided to take drastic measures to shut them up. He suddenly pushed John over to his old chair, fell into it, and then pulled John down onto his lap, where he wrapped his arms around the other – very confused man – and glared at the rest.

They had all gone silent. John's eyes were wide as the apparently not-dead consulting detective practically snuggled with him in front of a room full of onlookers, but he didn't even consider protesting. In fact, after a long minute of silence, he shifted and actually relaxed against Sherlock's chest.

"Everyone sit down," Sherlock demanded. It took a moment, but they finally arranged themselves accordingly.

"Erm, you know, John-" Lestrade started, but John interrupted.

"-is quite happy where he is, thanks."

Sherlock smiled.

Lestrade blushed.

John pinched Sherlock on the arm and gave him a severely unhappy look.

"Explain."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and shifted to unzip his raincoat. Everyone at first wondered what he was doing, but then he pulled down the coat enough to reveal what was underneath.

John gasped, then leaned forward to see it more clearly.

"What is it?" came Donovan's voice from the other chair.

There was a black mark around Sherlock's neck, a bit like a choker tattooed into his skin, roughly an inch thick.

"That, ladies and gentlemen," Sherlock began, "is the mark of Death."

"Sherlock," John said sharply, "what do you mean?"

The detective sighed impatiently. "This is the part that I am really unhappy about. You're all already in such a throw about whether or not my deductive skills are legitimate – thanks to that spider Moriarty – that you're definitely not going to believe what I'm about to say."

"I'll believe you," John whispered gently.

Sherlock's arms tightened around John.

"That is one of the reasons I came back for you," he said fondly, then huffed at the others. "The rest of you lot can burn...with the exception of Mrs. Hudson and Molly, I suppose."

John had caught on to something. "One of the reasons?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock said excitedly. "We have a very interesting case to solve."

"Are you going to explain how you're alive or what?" Anderson suddenly piped up.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I died," he declared loudly.

"You obviously didn't."

"Oh, but I did, not just in theory. I died! I was dead. It wasn't some fancy trick that I made up. I really was dead."

Silence.

"This is what I meant! You'll never believe me unless I give you proof, and right now, I'm not sure that I can."

"Sherlock," John growled. "Just say it!"

Highly irritated, the consulting detective opened his mouth and did.

"Moriarty had three people targeted by snipers: John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. He said that if I didn't kill myself, the snipers would kill them. I had a time limit. If they didn't see me hurl myself off of that bloody building, then they would be killed. I was going to grab Moriarty and get him to call them off, but he shot himself in the head before I could. I had…no choice. I called John, told him that I was fake, and then I…jumped. It hurt for a moment. I felt it, but it was over quickly."

John made a helpless noise and pressed his face against Sherlock's neck.

"I'm sorry you had to watch, but I couldn't have you spot the sniper. He would have killed you."

Sherlock glanced around the room. A myriad of expressions faced his, most of them believing.

He continued: "This is where the story gets…weird. Just after I hit the ground, I was standing to the side, watching the people fret over my dead body. John, too." John shuddered in his grasp. "I panicked for a few minutes, but then I started thinking again. It was illogical. I had a body, I was me, but no one could see me. Then, another man appeared who said he could. He said he was reaper, and that he had come to take me away – to either heaven or hell. He didn't specify. I was desperately trying to talk him out of it, to tell me how to come back to life. I tried tricking him, getting him to let me talk to his superior. I was just guessing, but apparently, he did have one. Somehow or other, he grabbed me and we ended up…erm…zapping to this weird little restaurant in Italy."

John was frowning against Sherlock's neck. It was discouraging. The detective sighed.

"Um, I'm sorry…what?" It was Lestrade. He looked furious. "Is this some kind of joke?"

The others were exchanging incredulous looks. You could practically read their thoughts on their faces. If they didn't think Sherlock was crazy before, they did now. The only one who didn't appear to be baffled was Mycroft. He only seemed uncomfortable, and kept avoiding his brother's gaze.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock suddenly spat. "You know, don't you? You know about all of it."

The older Holmes brother bowed his head in defeat. "You made a deal with Death."

"How did you know?" Sherlock growled, furiously.

He looked up. "Dick Roman."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Of course. Of course! The leviathans' reach is stretching all across the globe. Of course, you would have met one of them, probably a long time ago. They would have threatened you, which is how you found out what they were. Then you would have looked into other supernatural beings out there…probably made contact with some hunters…got more information."

Mycroft was smiling. "His name was Bobby Singer."

Sherlock would have jumped out of his chair, if John hadn't been situated in his lap.

"I've been instructed to revive him."

Mycroft grinned. "Bloody useful bloke. Knew more about monsters than I know about the British government. How are you going to revive him, Sherlock?"

"I'm Death's pet right now, unfortunately. It's the only way he'll bring me back to life. I've got to do him a few favors first."

"Whoa! Back up!" John suddenly spoke up. "I'm lost. What the hell are you two on about?"

"The world is in danger, John," Sherlock said, and a quick kiss to John's temple. The doctor blushed scarlet and fell back against the detective's chest. "And we're going to save it."


	2. The Winchesters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have their first encounter with the Winchesters and their mysterious angel.

**.Waiting.**

Airports are tedious. There are approximately 49,000 airports in the world, and every single one of them looks and smells nearly identical. It would be easy to imagine Hell as an airport, as they are immensely displeasing for a multitude of reasons.

For one, they are always crowded, and no one is happy. 

Everyone is either running late or too early for a flight. Those who are ridiculously early with nowhere to go can usually be found sprawled across the rather uncomfortable airport benches and/or laying halfway across their luggage. Heaven help you if you let go of your bags for more than three seconds, for certainly it is a bomb, you are a terrorist, and airport security will be sure to make your life a living hell – and of course airport security announces their opinions on the state of your luggage repeatedly over the intercom. The smart thing to do would be to check in your luggage to whatever airline you are using before your flight, sans carry-on items, however, most flights don’t accept luggage until roughly two hours before the flight, so that plan is usually redundant anyway.

Of course, those who are running late always show up right at the post-two hour mark of another flight’s departure, so all of the early birds are already in line, while the late individual fidgets angrily at the back, and the registers take their bloody time getting everyone checked in.

People in airports tend to act a lot like Sherlock on an average day, meaning that social niceties are nonexistent. Considering the fact that the rest of society should never act like Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective himself is that much more irritable.

“We’re too early,” John announced as they stepped through the glass sliding doors of the Heathrow Airport. “I told you so.”

Sherlock made a dismissive sound and led John over to a row of benches that sat in clear view of the large screen displaying various flight times.

“It’s not even on the board yet,” John remarked, plopping down on the bench. Sherlock took a seat beside him. “We could have had lunch.”

“You’re still angry with me,” Sherlock finally declared.

John snorted. “You hurled yourself off of a building in front of me, told me you were a fraud. Then you bust in three months later, claiming to be on a mission for Death, and cuddle with me on a chair in front of practically everyone that we know. I’m a bit mad, yeah.”

“You weren’t complaining at the time.”

“I was in _shock_!” John huffed, exasperated.

Sherlock suddenly wrapped his arm around John’s shoulders and pressed his face against the other man’s neck. John wasn’t actually surprised by the gesture. For the past three days, Sherlock had been more affectionate than John had ever seen him. The doctor finally sighed and relaxed against his partner’s side.

“We’ve had this conversation a million times,” John said quietly. “It’s not going to change. I know that you’re sorry, and I’m still trying to get used to…this. I just really wish I had more time to deal with it.”

Sherlock resurfaced and abruptly removed his arm. “It’s important. I don’t get to stay alive if I don’t do this.”

“I’m still not getting all of this supernatural nonsense, but so long as you’re here, I’m going to go along with it.”

Sherlock smiled and then absently started fiddling with his carry-on bag. He eventually pulled out a small item and passed it to John, who raised a quizzical brow in return.

“There’s a series of books in there called _Supernatural_. Ignoring all of the romantic nonsense and assuming that you read faster than you type, you should be able to read all of the portions I highlighted concerning the various creatures that we’re going to be dealing with once we team up with Sam and Dean Winchester. It is, after all, an 11 hour flight.”

John nodded and crammed the e-reader into his own bag. 

“So we have an entire hour before we can go through security. Want to tell me what Death had you doing for three months?”

“Oh, that.” Sherlock shrugged. “Time moves a little differently when you’re dead. I spent a fair amount of time eating at fancy restaurants, while Death impugned me with some of his power. Everything else he told me I would figure out as I went along. He reminded me of Mycroft, actually. Rather annoying.”

John laughed. “Death is like Mycroft? What did he look like? Did he have an umbrella? Oh God, you didn’t call him ‘fat’ did you?”

Sherlock outright grinned. “No, but I’ll remember that one next time.”

John rolled his eyes and preoccupied himself with watching passerby for the next fifteen minutes. A woman in the baggage line was arguing with security personnel about a rather questionable looking bottle of shampoo that they had found in one of her suit cases. A man at one of the counters expressed his concerns about his nine-year-old daughter flying on her own to some place or other. A man in an airport uniform was trying desperately to translate directions for a Japanese woman. A couple argued about flight times. An old man squinted at the flight boards.

John was brought out of a daze by a loud groan directly to his right. The sound actually caught the attention of several other people.

“I’m BORED. Boring! This is agonizing, John!” Sherlock lurched up from the bench and started pacing in the middle of the airport, bumping in to another man and sneering at him rather rudely.

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John hissed. “Sit down! This is an airport! You can’t-!” John groaned as Sherlock bumped into a woman in a pink business suit, and was offhandedly reminded of his first case with his infuriating friend. Unfortunately, at this point, some of the security guards nearby were eyeing Sherlock with a worrying interest.

John stood, grabbed his friend by the arms and snogged him furiously for a few seconds. By the time he pulled away, his face was already red with embarrassment, but Sherlock’s expression was absolutely worth it. The consulting detective allowed himself to be pulled back onto the bench without complaint. John put an arm around Sherlock’s waist and leaned into him. 

Sherlock didn’t say another word.

**.Security.**

“This is idiotic,” Sherlock argued with security. Having already had to remove his coat and his laptop from his bag, he was not in the best of moods. “I’m not hiding explosives in my bloody shoes!”

“Sir, you have to take them off. It’s the law.”

“ _Ridiculous!_ ” The detective growled.

“ _Sherlock, just bloody take them off!_ ” John snarled. This was already a disaster. Getting security to accept Sherlock’s rather questionable luggage had been difficult enough. “Haven’t you ever been through airport security?”

“We’ve already established this, John. Previously, when I traveled, I just used one of Mycroft’s private jets.”

“Why the hell didn’t you ask him for one this time?”

“I’m not talking to that moron.”

“Sir, your shoes?” demanded the irritated security guy.

John rolled his eyes, bent down and forcibly started removing Sherlock’s shoes. Sherlock obediently lifted his feet when John demanded him to. Once they were _finally_ through security, John was embarrassed and agitated. He led Sherlock to their gate only to discover that there was no seating available in the waiting area.

“Forty-five minutes,” John announced, glancing at his watch. “I guess we’ll have to stand.”

“Fifty-five,” Sherlock corrected casually and without explanation, before positioning himself against a wall and sitting on the floor in an undignified heap. He suddenly became very involved with his mobile.

“Want a cuppa?”

“Please,” the detective declared, and John left his carry-on bag with Sherlock as he went off in search of tea.

By the time he returned, Sherlock was grinning at the phone.

“Case?” John ventured a guess and Sherlock nodded.

“I’ll solve it before we board,” he declared.

**.Flying.**

“ _Please turn off all electronic devices…_ ”

Sherlock muttered mutinously under his breath when John snatched his mobile away and fired off one last text to Lestrade before turning off the power.

_He’ll text you back when we get to Chicago. Sorry. –JW._

“Didn’t solve it in time, huh?” John said lightly as he tucked Sherlock’s phone into his own bag and out of the consulting detective’s reach.

“Twenty more minutes, John. I could have solved it by then. Now I’ll have to wait 11 bloody hours.”

“Not my fault,” John reminded. “When are we going to take off, I wonder? We’ve already been sitting here for thirty minutes. Would it have killed Mycroft to get us first class seats?” A thought suddenly occurred to John, and he shot Sherlock a wary glance. “God, you’re going to be horrible, aren’t you? What’s your capacity for boredom on an airplane full of people?”

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a frown. “Two hours.”

“Sleep?” John suggested, rather panicked. He couldn’t imagine dealing with a “bored” Sherlock for nine hours straight on a plane full of innocent bystanders.

“Ridiculous. How can anyone sleep in one of these things is beyond me, and could these seats be any smaller?”

“This is going to be a nightmare.”

**.Three Hours.**

“John. John. John. John.”

Sherlock flopped over, practically in John’s seat and repeated his name. John’s own sanity was starting deteriorate. By the one and a half hour mark, Sherlock was already fidgeting and sighing and shifting. By the three hour mark, he was practically vibrating with boredom. John was starting to wonder why he’d ever agreed to this in the first place.

“You could watch the movie,” John suggested.

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Mm. Hey, I had a bag of peanuts earlier. Where’d they go?” John shifted, pushing Sherlock off of him to search the area for his waylaid treat.

“This is brilliant, John!” Sherlock hissed with joy.

John froze. “Pardon?”

“Where could they have gone?” 

John couldn’t help but smile. “Are you serious?”

“What?” Sherlock said, glancing rapidly up and down the row they were in

“This is a case for you.”

“Please don’t distract me John. I’m busy!”

John laughed.

**.Landing.**

“Oh, thank God,” John muttered as they walked onto the platform.

Sherlock grumpily followed. “I can’t believe I was sitting on them the entire time. This is scientific proof that flying lowers your IQ.”

“Shut up. You kept accusing the stewardesses of stealing the peanuts. It’s what you deserve for making a scene. They said carousel nine for baggage right?”

“Eight, John.”

**.Luggage.**

Sherlock was in hysterics. “They lost the _Strad_ , John! It’s not here! Why isn’t it here?!”

John dragged his panicking friend over to the “lost baggage” lane and prepared himself for the worst.

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock slumped over the counter and gave the attendant his blackest glare.

“Do you have any idea how much that violin is worth? If you don’t find it within the next hour, _I will ruin you!_ ”

It was the perfect moment for a security guard to walk in with Sherlock’s violin case. John watched in alarm as Sherlock practically tackled the man holding his beloved _Stradivarius_.

**.Fake.**

“Sherlock, are you sure about this?” John asked uncomfortably as Sherlock passed a counterfeit driver’s license to the AVIS clerk.

The detective rolled his eyes.

**.Avenger.**

John sat in the passenger seat of the _Dodge Avenger_ and buckled his seatbelt.

“This feels completely backwards.”

“That’s because it is, John.”

“Look at it. The steering wheel is on the wrong side. You have to drive on the wrong side. It’s madness.”

“Fortunately, I’m good at that.”

Sherlock pulled out of the parking garage as John pulled out a road map.

“You know, I did pay extra for the GPS,” Sherlock remarked.

“Need I remind you my disposition on chip and pin machines? Do you really think that this is going to be any better?”

“Right. Silly me.”

**.Meg.**

“North Indiana State Hospital. Are you sure this is the place?” John asked as Sherlock pulled the car into the parking lot.

“When Death is talking, one tends to pay attention.”

They left the car in the parking lot and made their way to the hospital lobby. The man at the front desk eyed them skeptically.

“We’re here to visit our friend Emanuel,” Sherlock announced.

“Just a sec,” the attendant said and spoke a few clipped words into a walkie before directing Sherlock and John to some chairs in the waiting area. 

“Thought you said his name was something else,” John whispered as they sat down.

Sherlock sighed. “They wouldn’t use his real name for this. According to Death, most of the angels were destroyed. They’re dangerous, powerful, and knowledgeable. The leviathans don’t necessarily fear them, but they’ve acknowledge the fact that any angel could be impairing. Castiel is supposed to be a secret.”

“A secret weapon?”

“Quite, were it not for the fact that his grace is rather damaged.”

“Meaning?”

“He’s a bit cracked.”

John smirked. “Well, we should all get along rather swimmingly then.”

Sherlock grinned.

“Well, well, well,” said a rather condescending voice from the main hallway. “Visitors for our little Emanuel, and who might you be?”

John felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, though he couldn’t immediately determine why. Looking over, he noted the owner of the voice: a rather short woman with a round face and beady eyes. Next to John, Sherlock was tense, with his mouth pressed into a firm line that the ex-army doctor immediately knew meant trouble. They rose from their chairs in tandem; a habit that came from too much time spent following each other’s every move. Sherlock stepped forward and was very careful to keep himself between John and the small, rather alarming nurse.

“He’s woken up recently,” Sherlock stated.

“He might have,” the woman retorted dryly. “Question is, how would you know and why would you want to?”

“I have my reasons,” Sherlock said in a tone that made John’s hackles rise. That sort of barbed dismissal was usually reserved for men like Moriarty.

“Far as I know, there are only two people who should know about little Emanuel, and neither one of them is either of you.”

“Sam and Dean, yes, I know. I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting someone like you to be here. I’m surprised they would trust someone who is obviously trying to take advantage of the handicapped powerhouse’s emotional upheaval.”

The woman smiled nastily. “Best keep that to yourself, sugar, and you too, short stuff.” She winked at John, making Sherlock visibly bristle.

“Point is, I can see you for what you are,” Sherlock informed.

“Can you now?” she was grinning. “Ooooh, what fun.”

“Ms. Masters?” the man at the counter intervened. “Everything alright?”

“It’s all good, Dave. I think I’ll just show these two to the visiting area.” She shoved a clipboard in their faces. “Sign in and follow me.”

 _It’s a ruse,_ John realized. _She’s just trying to get us away from prying eyes to sort this out._

He and Sherlock scrawled aliases, times, and dates onto the sign-in sheet and followed the obviously-not-your-typical-nurse into the hall. She led them four doors down, hung a right, and walked into a large room full of tables and plastic chairs. She spun around almost immediately, and looking much more hostile than before, snapped at them with that atrocious accent of hers.

“Alright, who are you and how do you know about Castiel?”

Sherlock falls right into what John privately calls his “deduction” mode, which oddly makes the ex-soldier feel much more at ease with the situation.

“You’re a demon,” Sherlock started, and John immediately tensed again, “and a cowardly one at that. You’re the sort who hides when the danger comes too close. Like a snake in the grass, you strike when your enemies least expect it. You don’t have friends or allies. Likely the only reason the Winchesters allow you to stick around is because they don’t consider you much of a threat, and they can’t be bothered to do it themselves. You’re here because you want to use Castiel to your advantage. Due to his current psychological state, your chances are quite good.”

To John’s delight, the woman – _demon_ – looked rather disconcerted.

“You’re just a human,” she retaliated. “What gives you the right to act all high and mighty? I could break you in half, silly boy, and it would be easy. What I want to know is where you’re getting all of this information. Who are you working for? Are you one of Crowley’s?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please, no one needed to tell me anything about you. You’ve been in human form so long that you’re just as easy to read as any other idiot who happens to cross my path, and don’t insult me by assuming that I work for the King of Hell.” He reached up and removed his scarf, revealing the solid black mark around his neck. “My patron is a bit more higher seated.”

“Well, that’s a nice collar,” she snarled. “Didn’t take you for the submissive type. I guess shorty here is tougher than he looks. I got to hand it to you, short stop, you’ve got yourself a live wire. I hope he’s worth it.”

John growled at her implications and felt the absence of his gun rather keenly. Despite the fact that he was well aware that a bullet wouldn’t kill her, it would be nice to leave a hole between her eyes all the same.

“I’m surprised that you don’t recognize it,” Sherlock intoned, calm as ever, “though he was rather insistent that the whole debacle was a rarity.”

“Care to elaborate?” she said, rapidly losing patience, and just to be concrete, added, “who do you mean?”

“ _Death_ ,” Sherlock finally revealed. “Death is my master.”

John stepped directly next to Sherlock for the next bit, watching as all the blood drained from the demon’s borrowed face.

“You’re lying,” she snapped a second later. “Death never gets himself involved.”

“You’d do well not to speak for him,” Sherlock warned. “He’s rather tepid about such things.”

“You’re one to talk,” John grumbled.

Sherlock none-too-subtlety elbowed him in the side.

“I don’t believe it,” she clarified.

“Well, then,” Sherlock said with delight, “let me change your mind.”

**.Out of the Water.**

John was having a small moment of panic, because while he had decided to believe all the nonsense that Sherlock had been going on about for the past few days, it was one thing to try and accept the impossible, quite another to see it for himself.

When the demon’s eyes had turned black, he had been making a rather stupid face, and when John pulled himself together enough to look the world’s only consulting detective in the eye, he’d been thrown for a loop again upon seeing that Sherlock’s eyes had gone completely silver.

At that point, John Three-Continents Watson promptly picked his jaw up off the floor, and stepped back to watch the show, because he was obviously losing his mind, and he needed a moment to embrace the insanity before he tried to speak again.

Otherwise, he might just scream like a little girl, and that was a little more than a bit not good.

He was rather worried for a moment when the demon-woman ran at his best friend, procuring a knife from thin air [a knife that for all accounts and purposes, looked like a prop out of a bad sci-fi film], and aimed it for Sherlock’s heart. The slew of memories was unexpected.

_I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one._

_I’ll burn the HEART out of you._

_You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson._

Sherlock blinked and the demon was pinned by an invisible force to the opposite wall. Sherlock had somehow gotten his hands on the knife, which he was observing with rapt fascination, while the demon cursed him to hell and back. John wanted to interrupt, but his eyes were still on Sherlock, who sported the silver eyes of a thing very much not human.

“It’s just me, John,” the detective said out of nowhere and destroyed every ounce of John’s hesitation. He fearlessly approached Sherlock then and asked, “What is that thing, anyway?”

“Enochian. An angel’s sword. It’s a bit difficult to focus on, to be honest.”

John glanced over to the demon again, reeling at the intense feeling of wrongness that he got from her.

“Could it kill her?” he wondered.

Sherlock glanced up sharply and met John’s eyes, his own still glowing silver. It gave the ex-army doctor a violent chill – a good one.

“Would you? There’s still a human under all of that, but it’s unlikely that the woman would survive what the demon has put her body through.”

John held his hand open for the weapon, now feeling more justified than ever in what he was about to do.

Sherlock gave it to him.

“Tell me,” John said, eyeing the blade, “is she – the demon – truly evil? Does she deserve to die?”

“She doesn’t deserve to live,” Sherlock hissed.

That was enough for John.

**.Winchesters.**

Dean and Sam walked into the hospital. Dean was lingering somewhere between angry, afraid, and concerned. He had his hands shoved into his pockets and a pinched expression. Sam was just anxious because his brother was emotional.

The receptionist recognized them from previous visits, greeted the brothers by two familiar pseudonyms before directing them to the dayroom while he wandered off to collect Castiel. Dean and Sam expected Meg to be hot on their heels the moment they entered the hospital. What they weren’t expecting was the presence of two British men sitting across from them in the waiting area and Meg nowhere in sight.

There was an awkward silence, before someone finally decided to speak. It was, of course, John.

“Lovely day,” he commented casually, very deliberately leaning away from Sherlock’s looming presence, as the detective had a tendency to scare people away or immediately shock them into a defensive state. From the look of things – Dean’s rather haughty appearance and Sam’s overly open one – it seemed best to approach the world’s most notorious hunters with extreme caution. John had learned a thing or two from those novels, after all, though he doubted the overall accuracy of such rubbish.

“Oh yeah,” Sam replied somewhat nervously, “rained a few days ago.”

“Did it?” John inquired, falsely cheery.

“Oh, this is idiotic,” Sherlock suddenly snapped. Sam and Dean then gave the detective their full attention, both obviously on high alert. John groaned in frustration.

“What’s your problem?” Dean snarled. Sam put a restraining hand on his shoulder, but otherwise gave Sherlock a suspicious glare.

“We’re both waiting on the same person. Better to get tedious introductions out of the way now.”

“Not before the receptionist returns,” John reminded his friend. “He’s happily oblivious, and it would be best if he remained that way.”

“Where’s Meg?” Sam asked sharply, one hand fiddling with something his pocket – a knife, John acknowledged. Security here was a joke.

“That pest is dead,” Sherlock replied. “Don’t tell me that you wanted her around?”

Dean made a sound of disgust, to which Sherlock retorted rather smugly: “I didn’t think so.”

“Are you hunters?” Sam demanded.

“Might be,” Sherlock teased. He was agitated, John realized. Not good. “We could be demons or angels or any number of things. Why would you immediately assume that we’re hunters?”

“Well, if you’re not,” Dean stood and appeared a bit more intimidating than either John or Sherlock were expecting. “Then, you’re dead.”

“In fact, you’re dead either way,” Sam intoned, standing next to his brother and looking rather ferocious.

 _Tall_ , John thought, alarmed. _Taller than Sherlock and definitely dangerous. Both of them are._

“How do you know about Cas? Who told you?” Dean growled, and to John’s horror, Sherlock smirked.

The consulting detective stayed rooted to his chair as if he didn’t have a care in the world, and he was grinning tauntingly at two rather dangerous madmen who killed monsters for a living. _No, no, not for a living,_ John remembered, _but because neither one of them is truly comfortable doing any else. This is what they were born to do. It’s what they’re good at._

His body on full alert, John stayed sitting beside Sherlock, but was ready to lunge and/or maim at any given moment. He was still hiding an angel’s sword in his pocket – his trump card. Well, that and Sherlock’s wit and whatever undefinable power Death had given him. Between the detective and his blogger, it would have to do.

“Calm down. We’re on your side.” Sherlock said cordially, which was beyond unexpected.

To everyone’s shock, that seemed to actually lighten the tension in the room quite a bit. Dean and Sam retook their seats and a new silence fell on the group until someone finally deigned to break it. Oddly enough, Sam Winchester took it upon himself to use the word that John so often favored in Sherlock’s overbearing presence – the one that was nearly always successful and sure to get results:

“Explain.”

“I’m a genius,” Sherlock began, to which John gave him his most exasperated look. “A consulting detective for Scotland Yard. That’s in London, by the way, _England_.” He gave Dean a rather pointed look, as if he didn’t expect any real intelligence to emerge from his general direction. “I was in the crux of a very important case when my imminent death rudely presented itself.”

“Pardon?” Dean huffed.

“He jumped off a building,” John supplied dryly.

“Oh. Maybe he should tell the story,” Dean said smartly to Sam, who rolled his eyes in reply.

“ _Dean-_ “

“Upon dying,” Sherlock interrupted loudly, “I met my reaper, an irritating man by the name of Devon. Shortly after, rather than making that notorious journey to either Heaven or Hell, we popped up unexpectedly in Italy at a rather prestigious restaurant. There I met an old man who kept insisting that I sample the _cannelloni_ while I argued that I was rather put out about the whole ‘being dead’ ordeal.”

Sherlock paused to take in their reactions. He wasn’t surprised to see that Dean and Sam were exchanging surprised glances, having come simultaneously to the obvious conclusion. John was tense beside him. Sherlock casually brushed his hand across the other man’s knee, and to his delight, the doctor relaxed instantly.

“Let me get this straight,” Dean started, “ _Death_ pulled you from the road to paradise to have pasta and a chat?”

“He did, indeed,” Sherlock allowed, waiting for them to catch on to that other detail that should be much more obvious and would certainly throw them for an even greater loop.

“Wait,” Sam said with wide eyes – and _ah, there it is._ “If you died, how are you here?”

Sherlock smiled. “That’s the point I was getting to. He sent me here to help you out. Apparently, these leviathans are more trouble than he likes. They’re throwing off the balance, or some such thing.”

“He sent you to do his dirty work? And you agreed in exchange for what?” Dean wanted to know.

“How many people do you imagine get a second chance at life without losing their souls in the process?” Sherlock asked rather smugly, and showed them the ring around his neck. “I’m ‘death marked’. It’s a rather obscure title, but I’ve grown accustomed. It does come with certain benefits.”

“Like coming back to life?” Sam inquired.

“That has been established, but yes, among other things.”

Dean: “Other things? _What_ other things?”

John leaned forward, having had enough of being the silent party. “You have a friend here,” he stated. “Castiel, the angel.”

Dean appeared distinctly uncomfortable.

“Death told you about Cas?” Sam asked cautiously.

“How to help him,” John added. “It’s something only Sherlock can do. As we’ve heard it, right now your angel friend is a little…broken.”

“I am inclined to do something about that,” Sherlock added, “no strings attached.”

“Nothing’s free,” Dean corrected.

“No it isn’t,” John snapped, suddenly angry at how unreasonable they were being. “Sherlock’s the one at risk here. Once the leviathans are aware of him, he will be the one in jeopardy. Don’t think for a moment that it’s going to be easy. We don’t want to help you, but we have to. I spent three months thinking that Sherlock was done. Do you imagine that it was easy for me, thinking that my best friend was dead? And the premise behind that whole ordeal is something that you could hardly understand. Over all, this monster mess seems so much simpler.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he was smiling. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam seemed to be having their own private discussion, a meeting of eyes, a tilted eyebrow here, and a twitch of the lips there. They seemed to have made a decision, but the moment Dean opened his mouth to announce their conclusion, the doors to the dayroom opened.

Dean, Sam, John, and Sherlock all turned towards the entrance, where the receptionist gently nudged a gruff looking man in white scrubs into the room.

“I’m entrusting you all to take care of them,” the receptionist declared regally.

Sam offered the man an uncertain smile, and the receptionist left.

That left Castiel standing there in utter disarray and very off-kilter, looking rather fearfully at the four men occupying the waiting area. Sherlock wasted no time. He immediately lurched to his feet and dashed across the room to the disgruntled looking angel. Dean was up next, rushing at Sherlock with violent intent as the detective grabbed Castiel’s frightened shoulders. John got to Dean before he could get to Sherlock, but when John knocked Dean to the ground, he wasn’t expecting Sam to jump him from behind. By the time John had retaliated enough to drop Sam next to his now-injured brother, the deed was done.

In a flash of silver light, Sherlock had repaired Castiel’s grace.

John and Sherlock were both rather shocked when Castiel was suddenly not where either of them expected him to be. The angel had disappeared out of Sherlock’s line of sight and immediately reappeared in John’s. Standing protectively over the fallen Winchester’s, the angel Castiel glared so fiercely at John that he took a startled step back.

“Cas…?” Dean groaned, sounding both hopeful and pained all at once.

Sherlock walked towards John and stepped around him, practically shielding him from the angel’s view. John huffed angrily when Sherlock did this – he didn’t need protecting. That much should have been obvious from the state of the groaning Winchesters on the floor. Sherlock, however, seemed to think otherwise. His eyes glowed eerily silver in Castiel’s direction.

“Death has touched you,” Castiel said in a voice that was surprisingly deep and rough.

“And restored you,” Sherlock said in a tone that was just as piercing.

John leaned around Sherlock and took in the sight of the angel. The doctor felt the first inkling of fear as he observed the other “man”. There was _something_ that was obviously off about him. You could practically feel the air humming with power from where he stood. If John had never met him, he would naturally assume that Castiel should be avoided.

John knew dangerous men – Sherlock, for one, would always be dangerous, but in a way that John appreciated. Mycroft was, as Sherlock had put it, “The most dangerous man you will ever meet.” Moriarty wasn’t even worth mentioning. The very thought of that spider put John in a foul mood.

Castiel tilted his head curiously at John.

“You have a pure soul,” he announced without warning and visibly relaxed.

John blushed, and Sherlock _giggled_ of all things, his eyes losing their silvery sheen.

Castiel turned his back on them to help Sam and Dean to their feet.

“Oooow,” Dean complained when Castiel lifted him up. Sam, already standing beside him, offered John a respectful look.

“No one has – no _human_ has dropped me that hard since before Dad died,” the younger Winchester said quietly. “You’re good.”

John blushed some more. “Erm, thanks.”

“He’s ex-military,” Castiel announced, and Sherlock looked rather intrigued by this.

“How do you know?” asked the detective.

Dean rolled his eyes and said mystically, “angel mojo.”

“You get used to it,” Sam added.

John grinned, thinking of Sherlock.

“I imagine we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there’s some stuff I didn’t get into yet – Sherlock’s deduction of Dean, Sam, or Cas, or how the death scene with Meg went down [like where the body went, for instance]. I hate her character and was delighted to finish her off. It really was the highlight of the chapter for me. Those details will filter in later. I apologize for all of the airport fodder. I tend to ramble about that sort of stuff, because I FLY A LOT. Also, the series never specified whether or not a demon could be killed with an angel’s sword, so I sort of messed with that a bit and said YES IT CAN. I know this is all very dialogue heavy and I apologize for that. I just really enjoy writing dialogue. Also, I am currently driving a rental - a Dodge Avenger!


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley was used to being the clever one amongst the hoard, so when a group of loose-tongued demons cornered him in one of the shadier corners of the globe and started yapping about something other than the Leviathans, he was quick to pay attention.

"There's a new demon pulling Roman's strings," were the words that first snagged Crowley's attention.

"The guy's an expert, whoever he is."

"Heard he caught Phaliah, ripped him up good. Can you believe that this asshole is recruiting humans?"

There were some mild noises of outrage at this announcement.

"He even keeps one as a pet."

"I don't blame him! Have you seen that guy?! I wouldn't go near him if you paid me!"

"Who is this new demon?" Crowley interjected, turning a few heads. "Does this magnificent example of mischief have a name?"

"Something weird, starts with an 'M' - Murray? Morrey? Murphey? Monterey"

A snort.  " _Moriarty_ , idiot."

Crowley stiffened; a chill crawled up his spine. _That_ was a name that he recognized. _That_ was also their best bet for getting rid of these purgatory parasites. Hope and dread warred within him.

"I ought to send out an invitation," he remarked.

"You know him, boss?"

Crowley smirked. "I know him a bit."

" **Just a bit, dear** _? **You wound me**."_

The demons quieted and quickly cleared a path to the speaker.

A thin, short, rather imposing man was leaning against the back wall, hands lax in the pockets of his suit. His huge, dark eyes were focused intently on the King of Hell.

Another man - a muscular _human_ , Crowley realized - loomed over the shorter. He wore army fatigues, a tight gray tank top, and heavy steel-toed boots. A cigarette hung from thin lips and what looked suspiciously like an AK-47 was slung over his left shoulder. His hair was blond and messy, but his strong jaw and serious blue eyes screamed DANGER.

"The devil wears Westwood," Crowley said flatly. "How are you, James? Got bored in London did you? That clever bloke give you a run for your money?"

"Hardly," Moriarty said, rolling his eyes. "He was doing so well, until his little doctor friend got in the way. I'm convinced that sentiment will lead the human race to their doom. He's dead now. Dead as a doornail.   _Boring!_ But you seem to be having fun over here. I thought I'd join in."

"I didn't give you permission," Crowley said sharply.

Moriarty gave a shrill laugh. "Per _mission_!" he snarled hysterically. "Have you forgotten, old friend, who let you off the rack and set your feet straight? I made you, and I can _break_ you."

" _Aranea_ ," Crowley declared, shifting uncomfortably.  He knew not to take Moriarty’s threats lightly. "So the spider wants to kill the Winchesters, eh? And then what will you do?"

"Oh, _darling!_ You know I'm not in it for the _endgame_!  I just like the _chase_.”  He hissed the last word menacingly and sauntered forward.  “You know how much I like to play.  I’m sure you haven’t forgotten, or shall I remind you?”

Crowley shuddered.  “No need for that, mate, but what of Hell?”

“It’s all yours, Your Highness, though I wouldn’t mind having our dear Lucy for a pet.  I hear you’ve got him caged down there.”

“Could drag him up in chains, if you’d like,” Crowley suggested casually.

“And _spank_ him,” Moriarty said gleefully. “He’s always been such a spoiled little brat.”

“But he’s still the Light Bearer, the Morningstar…even you were subservient.  If we drug him out now, he might be a bit…cross.”

“I was _hardly_ subservient,” Moriarty spat, “I was the least loyal of his followers and fled to Earth the moment I could squeeze through the gates.  Hell is so _boring_.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, muttering, “Only you would find Hell boring.”

“I tricked my maker off the rack. It was easy,” Moriarty reminded, sounding wistful.  “But once the novelty wore off, I saw the pit for what it really was… _dull_.”

“It’s not a getaway,” Crowley snarled. “It’s a prison and a punishment.”

Moriarty blinked heavily and suddenly laughed.  “Oh, I bet Sherlock’s having a blast down there. Who’s his demon, anyway?”

Crowley glanced to Andora, Keeper of the Lists, and raised a brow.

“There are no Sherlocks in Hell, Your Highness.”

“So he went to Heaven, then. He really _was_ on the side of the angels.”  Moriarty made a disgusted sound.

Crowley shrugged, uncaring. “So you’re in, Aranea?”

“Call me Jim. You don’t get to call me Aranea.”

The King of Hell cleared his throat and nodded.  “So what’s the plan, Jim?”

The world’s only consulting criminal grinned madly.

“Time to play a game.”

* * *

 

Castiel knew that he was in for a fight.  Dean was utterly furious with him, and he had every right to be.  What the angel had done was unbearable to think about.  The moment that Castiel stepped outside of the hotel, he fled, and his departure was followed by a litany of curses from Dean.  He flew far into the evening, until he decided he couldn’t bear the pain alone anymore and sought out the Winchesters, but he wouldn’t face them directly.

John Watson was settling into the cheap hotel room, and Sherlock was in the shower.  The ex-army doctor was shifting through a suit case in search of his pajamas when the sound of flapping wings and a deep voice nearly scared him out of his skin.

“Hello, John.”

“ _Christ!”_ John swore, spinning around, his hand automatically reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

“John?” Sherlock’s alarmed voiced called out from the bathroom.

“Never mind!” John called back, though he was breathing heavily. “You scared the hell out of me, and aaaah, I just swore in front of an angel. Sorry about that.”

Castiel was unfazed.  “You have a pure soul.”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” John said, leaning back against the bed. “Uh, could you maybe…step back a bit?”

Castiel blinked and took a step back. “Apologies.”

“It’s alright,” John reassured, chuckling.  “Sherlock has absolutely _no sense_ of personal space, but he does it on purpose.”

“Why?”

“Oh, that’s just him. So did you pick the wrong room?” John moved back to his luggage and started searching for those socks again.

“No,” the angel said and walked over to sit in an empty chair.  “Dean is angry with me.”

“I thought he’d be happy. You’re his friend, right?”

“Yes, well.” And that was all he said.

“So you’re here because…?”

Castiel sighed. “I want to be close to them, but I can’t face them directly. I’m… _afraid_.”

John smiled softly and glanced over in Castiel’s direction.  “That just means that you care about them. It’s a good thing.”

Castiel’s eyes wandered over to meet John’s and he looked confused for a moment, before his gaze sharpened and he nodded.  “The purity of your soul is unlike any I have ever seen. It’s similar to Dean’s, but…different. I find myself comforted by it.”

John looked like he wanted to laugh.  “Dean Winchester has a pure soul?”

“He is… _was_ the Righteous Man,” said the angel, as if that explained everything.

“So what does that make me?” John wondered.

“You are a contradiction.”

John nodded.  “Sherlock often says that.”

“Both a doctor and a soldier. It’s…interesting.”  Castiel looked utterly intrigued, and John couldn’t help but think that the angel’s blue eyes were rather striking. They had nothing on Sherlock’s pale, piercing gaze, but there was something very intense about them.

John opened his mouth to say something in kind, but he was interrupted by Sherlock loudly exiting the bathroom in nothing but a towel and his own skin, storming up to the angel, and glaring furiously at him.

“John is _mine_! Get your own.”

Castiel tilted his head to one side, expression thoughtful.

“Soul mates,” he declared suddenly, before glancing back to John, who was looking a little shocked, eyes locked on to his nearly-naked friend. “Your souls are perfect matches, though his is far from pure.”

Castiel gestured vaguely at the raging half-naked consulting detective who was still staring him down. However, at this announcement, Sherlock seemed to lose his steam.

“Well, you’re not completely an idiot,” he eventually said to the angel, which in Sherlock-speak, was practically a compliment.  “I suppose you can stay.”

Castiel smiled. “Thank you.”

“Even though it would be beneficial for _everyone_ if you and Dean would just make up already.”

“If it was that easy, I would,” Castiel insisted, looking at the floor.

Sherlock made an irritated sound and moved over to his own suitcase.  He dropped the towel around his waist, completely unabashed at being nude in front of both John and the angel, and started getting dressed.  John wanted to protest, but Castiel didn’t seem to mind, so he just rolled his eyes and went with it. Though John continuously snuck glances at Sherlock’s arse, and going by Castiel’s questioning gaze, he wasn’t being very subtle about it.

Eventually, Sherlock wandered over to the bed John was sitting on and joined him, pressing right up against the man’s side and wrapping a possessive arm around his shoulders. Despite his dismissal of the angel’s fascination with John, he was obviously still going to be defensive about it.

“John, it seems we have a case to solve,” Sherlock declared, breaking the silence.

“You mean besides killing the leviathans?”

“That’s not important right now. We’ll worry about it later. _First,_ we have to get Dean to stop being a moron and realize that he’s utterly angel-sexual.”

John frowned and looked back at Castiel with confusion. “Oh,” he eventually said with a light dawning in his crystal blue eyes. “ _Oh_!”

“What?” Castiel grunted, perplexed.

The look John gave him was full of pity. “You love Dean, don’t you?”

“Of course,” the angel replied. “I was born to raise him from Hell.  I was born to love him.”

“That’s adorable,” Sherlock said, and John elbowed him sharply in the side.

“I don’t understand,” Castiel admitted.

“Are you romantically attracted to him?”

“No.”

Sherlock laughed and John’s resulting glare was both quizzical and accusing.

“Liar,” the detective snapped. “You’re lying and you don’t even realize it.  The greatest deception is self-deception.”

Castiel looked offended, and as usual, John had to defend his brilliant idiot of a friend before he got himself in trouble.

“What he means is that you haven’t realized it yet. As an angel, it must be difficult to understand romantic entanglement.”

Castiel was fidgeting uncomfortably.  He had always been too curious for his own good.  All of the angels in the garrison had thought so.

“I don’t know if I love him romantically.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and explained it the best way he could.

“I used to say I was a sociopath,” he explained, “but I found John.”

“You were _never_ a sociopath,” John muttered exasperatedly.

Sherlock grinned. “No, but I liked everyone to think so.”

“Why?” said Castiel.

“Because I’m not the sort of person that people find it easy to love.  I care for very few people in my life and very few of them care for me.”

“More than you think,” John insisted quietly.

Sherlock’s expression was fond and irritated all at once. “Anyway,” he continued, “it took a while, quite a long time actually, for me to realize that I cared for John as more than a friend. In fact, I cared for him more deeply than anyone I have ever met.”

John was blushing, but he leaned against Sherlock and smiled.

“What’s your point?” Castiel growled, growing impatient.

Sherlock met his gaze and held it. “In less than ten words, describe Dean Winchester.”

That was easy. “Sam’s brother. A hunter. The Righteous Man.”

“Now, in less than ten, describe how you _feel_ about him.”

Castiel’s face grew pensive, and Sherlock and John watched him expectantly.

“He’s…”

Castiel shifted in his chair: leaned forward, leaned back and then forward again.

“He’s…”

He finally swallowed and looked Sherlock directly in the eyes.

The angel’s response was more of a growl: “He’s _mine_.”

Sherlock regarded him seriously for a moment, and then nodded.

“So we have our answer.”

* * *

 

Dean was fuming and Sam was growing impatient.

“Dean.”

“Leave it, Sammy!”

Sam sighed.  As usual, Dean was being grumpy and impossible and _stubborn_ and the youngest Winchester just _wasn’t_ in the mood for this shit right now.  So he grabbed his coat and stepped out.  He knew that if he went too far, Dean would likely panic and come after him or worse… _not_ come after him.  Though it was definitely arguable that Sam was not responsible for a lot of shit that was going down right now, it still hadn’t been that long since he’d been soulless, and though Cas had “fixed” him…there were still cracks in his mind that he was having trouble dealing with. Over the past week or so, on more than one occasion, he could have sworn that he had heard Lucifer’s voice whispering in his ear.

For now, he made his way to the Impala and curled up on the passenger side with window rolled down, staring gloomily at the emptier half of the hotel parking lot.

A few people passed, and eventually, John Watson did, too.  He was holding an ice bucket as he walked by the Impala’s hood, clearly not noticing Sam. Feeling much calmer, Sam climbed out of the car and moved to follow him. John found the ice machine in the lobby, and was filling up the bucket when he felt a tap on his shoulder.  He felt a surge of adrenaline and surprise.

Somehow, Sam ended up on the ground with his arm twisted up around his back in just a few seconds, and he was thinking that, for a short guy, John Watson could really _move_!

“Shit, sorry,” John apologized, letting Sam’s arm go, “but you guys have got to learn not to sneak up on people like that, especially ex-soldiers.”

Sam got to his feet, but his body was positively aching now, and his back was definitely bruised.

“You _guys_?” he inquired, wincing as he straightened.

“Your angel paid us a visit – is still visiting, in fact.”

Sam sighed.  “Sorry. Cas is…weird. In a good way!” He quickly added.  Then, he thought about the angel’s recent antics, and said, “Well, sort of…”

“That’s…very helpful,” John said, chuckling.

“Not at all, right?” Sam said around a tired laugh. A thought occurred to him. “Oh, no. Did you leave him with Sherlock? I mean, not to be offensive or anything, but the guy’s not exactly _nice_ and Castiel’s social skills are verging on horrible.”

John laughed. “Sherlock’s not nice to most people, no, but Castiel’s not really a person.” He paused. “Wow, _that_ sounded horrible.”

“I know what you mean,” Sam reassured him, chuckling. “Mind if I come over? Dean’s, ah….well.” The youngest Winchester gave John a look, and the ex-soldier understood immediately.

“Sure thing. We ordered pizza.”

Sam grinned. “Perfect.” He moved to follow John back to their hotel room. Sam walked behind John into the twin room that he and Sherlock were sharing and shut the door behind them. The smell of pizza immediately filled his nose and his stomach growled.

Sherlock gazed at Sam from where he was sprawled on one of the beds.

“Ah, hi.” Sam said awkwardly, giving a little wave.

“Oh, ignore Sherlock,” John insisted, moving over to the stack of pizza boxes that were stacked on the small table. “Take a seat, please.”

Sam did, asking: “Where’s Cas?”

“We sent him off to find drinks,” John admitted, looking a bit guilty. “He looked like he needed something to do. We practically had a weeping angel on our hands for all that he was sitting there and staring.”

Sam laughed. “Ah, a fellow Whovian. John Watson you are my new best friend.”

John grinned as Sherlock made an angry sound.

“Pipe down over there,” John said, rolling his eyes. “I need friends who actually know a bit of pop culture.”

“I watch telly,” Sherlock grumbled.

“And complain incessantly,” John retorted. “Either that or you ruin the endings for everyone else.”

“He _cannot_ predict Doctor Who!” Sam practically gasped. “ _Can_ he?”

John smiled grimly. “You’d be very surprised.”

“So he’s smart,” Sam stated the obvious before starting on a piece of pizza.

“As are you,” Sherlock responded. “Not a genius, perhaps, but you _are_ intelligent.”

“Educated is the word I think you’re looking for,” Sam insisted. “I went to Stamford.”

“Never finished though,” was the quick reply.

“No,” Sam said quietly.

The conversation was very awkward all of a sudden, and John scrambled for a way to lighten the mood again.

“Sherlock, didn’t you have a case to solve back in London?”

“LESTRADE!” Sherlock gasped, practically leaping off of the bed and scrambling for his phone.

“Oy! Use Skype or something! You’ll run the bill up!” John protested.

“Mycroft’s switched us to an international line by now, John. Do keep up.”

“Git,” John growled as Sherlock ignored him and started texting frantically.

Shaking his head, John said outright: “So your brother’s in love with the angel, eh?”

Sam froze for a mere second before sighing deeply. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Yep,” John said cheerfully. “The good news is that Castiel clearly adores Dean.”

“I know he cares for him, and they’re close, but I’ve never really been sure about how Cas feels,” Sam admitted.

“Oh, he loves him alright. Sherlock, what were his exact words?”

“’ _He’s mine._ ’” Castiel himself declared, appearing in the room.  He was carrying shopping bags, which he quickly deposited on the nearest available surface, which happened to be the floor. John completely ignored the angel’s failed social cue and reached over to grab the bags, dragging them across the floor next to his chair, rather than getting up.

“Hm, all alcohol.”

“I once drank a liquor store,” Castiel declared randomly.

John raised a brow and Sam laughed. “Who knew an angel could get drunk, right?”

“Really?” John asked, grinning. “How did that turn out?”

“I was completely useless,” said angel shared. “Dean told me never to do it again.”

“He did?” Sam asked, brows raised.

Sherlock suddenly walked around John’s chair and practically fell in the smaller man’s lap.

“Ow! Sherlock, get off!”

“Well, this just got really awkward,” Sam said, sharing an uncomfortable glance with Castiel – or so he thought. Cas was wearing his usual intense expression, so it was really just Sam who was cringing in horror.

“It was the ex, John, the _ex_! She snuck poison into his detergent.”

“I don’t care, Sherlock! GET OFF!”

“Should we leave?” Sam asked aloud, and at the same moment, there was a knock on the door.

Sherlock smirked and gleefully announced: “ _Dean_!” He practically bounced out of John’s lap and to the door, which he flung open dramatically.

Dean jumped back, clearly surprised and sputtered: “Is...uh, is Sam here?”

“ _Yes_.” Sherlock practically hissed, still grinning like a mad man. From his chair, Sam was smiling fondly, because despite all of his doubt, Dean had come looking for him. Not to mention, Sherlock was absolutely terrifying his older brother, and it was _hilarious_!

The world’s only consulting detective quite nearly _violently_ dragged Dean Winchester into the room and slammed the door behind him, demanding that Castiel stay put.

The angel froze in place, looking a bit guilty. His eyes met Dean’s and the tension between them was practically visible.

“Wow, eye sex.” John whispered to Sam, and the youngest Winchester burst out laughing, which was just enough distraction to break the staring contest between Dean and Castiel.

Sherlock was smirking as walked over to the angel and threw an arm over his shoulders.

“I’ve decided to keep Castiel. He’s quite useful. He’s agreed to stick with John and me where ever we go.”

The air in the room quickly transformed into something much more serious.

“W…what?” Dean uttered, as if he didn’t quite get the joke.

Sam caught on though.

“They aren’t lying, Dean,” he insisted. “Cas already said he would go.”

Castiel looked like he wanted to protest, but Sherlock glanced over and gave him a warning look.

_Trust the genius_ , _moron_.

Dean straightened, eyes wide, looking like he badly wanted to say something, before he finally just spun around and walked right out of the room.

Sam slumped in his chair. “Shit.”

“No, this is perfect,” Sherlock howled, and released Castiel. “Well? What are you waiting for? Go after him!”

With wide-eyes, Castiel disappeared in a flutter of wings.

John stared at his best friend concernedly. “What was that?”

“They’ll be shagging before midnight,” Sherlock said, looking smug.

Sam went a little green at that.

“Are you matchmaking now?” John asked, only half-joking.

Sherlock shrugged. “No, but when it’s as obvious as that, it would be a crime not to at least try and push them together, and you know how I feel about criminals.”

“You love them,” John said, deadpan, and immediately thought of Moriarty and regretted his words, but Sherlock seemed not to notice.

He sauntered over to the ex-army doctor, leaned over him and said softly, “No, I love _you_.”

Sam took that as his cue to leave.

* * *

 

As Sam Winchester headed back to his hotel room, he glanced over at the Impala, in passing, and nearly blanched at what he saw. There was his brother pressed up against Castiel, whose back was pressed against the car – and Dean was all up in the angel’s business.

Sam felt a little queasy and maybe just a bit jealous, but he was happy for them, and he didn’t regret calling out, “Get a room!” as he passed by.  Sam figured he was probably the only one who wasn’t getting laid tonight, but at least he and Dean had opted for separate rooms this time around.

He really needed a girlfriend.

* * *

 

Bobby Singer had just gotten off the phone with an old hunter pal of his, when he realized that something was wrong.  As a man with a keen hunter’s instincts, he could always just _tell_ when something was not right in his house.

And something was certainly wrong now.

He grabbed a bottle of holy water and a silver knife out of the kitchen before he finally made his way to the living room. A well-dressed man stood next to the sofa, casually leaning on the handle of his black umbrella.  Bobby glanced at the nearest window. It was bright and sunny outside.

“Good morning, Mr. Singer. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I work for the British government. I believe you’ve spoken to some of my associates before.”

_Balls!_ Bobby thought. _Not another British asshole!_

“Who the hell are you supposed to be? James Bond?”

Mycroft chuckled lightly. “Of course not, Mr. Singer. Though my presence here is a bit of a secret, and I would like to talk to you about something that is of a confidential nature.”

“Well, I ain’t buying it! How the hell did you get into my house? And what are you?”

Mycroft appeared as calm as ever. “I used the front door, obviously. And I I’m human, _obviously._ ”

“You getting smart with me, boy?”

“Not at all.”

“I ain’t got time for games. Now, I’m going to walk over there. Hold out your hand.” Bobby said menacingly.

Mycroft held out his hand as Bobby approached, and didn’t flinch when the old hunter reached out to run the knife across his palm.

“See? Nothing to be afraid of,” Mycroft insisted, and that was the very moment that Bobby threw holy water into the other man’s face and _lunged_.

* * *

 

The Winchesters, Castiel, Sherlock, and John were all crammed into a booth at a breakfast bar when Dean got a call from Bobby.

“What’s up, Bobby?” Dean said cheerfully, as Castiel plastered himself conspicuously against Dean’s side.

“You ever heard of a man named Mycroft Holmes?”

“Holmes?” Dean said loudly, catching everyone’s attention. “Hang on,” he told Bobby, giving Sherlock a look. “You know someone named Mycroft?”

Sherlock made a disgusted face. “My brother,” he said sharply.

“Ah.” Dean turned his attention back to the phone. “We know him.”

“Damn,” Bobby grunted. “Well, oops.”

Dean was making a face. “What did you do, Bobby?”

“Well, he broke into my house! What was I supposed to do?” Bobby growled.

“ _Bobby_.”

“I…he’s tied up in the basement. Did all the tests first. Better to be cautious you know.”

Dean sighed. “He’s tied up in the basement, Bobby? Really?”

“Well, we got leviathans running around! What did you expect me to do?”

Dean didn’t get a chance to answer that question, however, because both John and Sherlock were in hysterics.

“What’s so funny?”

“OH GOD,” John said through a laugh. “Please tell me he took pictures!”

Sherlock actually reached across the table for the phone and snatched it from Dean’s fingertips. “PICTURES!” was all the detective could manage, before Dean irritatedly snatched his cell phone back.

“You get that?” Dean asked, pressing the phone to his ear again.

“Who the hell are those idjits?”

“Friends,” Dean reassured him. “Let the asshole go, alright? _Right_?” He turned to John and Sherlock, who were both highly amused, but obviously calming down.

John nodded, smiling. “He’s…Sherlock’s brother. He can be a jerk, but…he means well.”

Sherlock appeared really, really surprised by John’s answer. Dean didn’t’ stop to wonder why.

“Let him go,” he confirmed.

“Fine. You boys take care.”

“Right.”

* * *

 

Bobby hung up the phone and turned back to Mycroft Holmes.

“Sorry about that,” he said awkwardly as he started to untie the British Government from the straight-backed chair. “Can never be too careful, you know?” He ripped a strip of tape from Mycroft’s mouth.

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, glaring. “We can never be _too_ careful.”

Bobby shrugged. “Ain’t the first time. When Dean came back from the dead, I nearly killed him. Sam did the same thing.”

“ _What?”_ Mycroft gasped.

“Don’t let get to ya. At least I’m not taking pictures.”

Mycroft groaned.

It took a while to get him untied. Bobby was nothing if not thorough. Later, when Mycroft was once again seated in Bobby’s living room, looking far more worse for wear than when he had arrived, he explained his purpose there. He breezed through Sherlock’s story, starting with his brother’s death, and then his resurrection. Bobby was quick to accept the story about Death, and he was already catching onto the fact that Mycroft was indeed, a very smart and possibly dangerous man.

“So what do you want me to do about it?” Bobby asked when Mycroft was done talking.

“I want you to look out for my brother and his…well, John.”

“Why should I?”

“Because if you don’t, I can make things very difficult for you and your would-be sons. I have a lot more to offer than you realize. I _am_ the British Government and I play in many powerful circles. If we do this correctly and _carefully,_ I believe we can manipulate Dick Roman to our hearts content. He may not be human,” Mycroft conceded, “and he’s clever, but he’s not nearly as clever as my brother, and he’s certainly not as clever as me.”

“It ain’t just him,” Bobby growled, “and where the hell do you get off threatening me? I can always throw you _back_ in the basement, you creep.”

“Can you now?”

Bobby damn near jumped off of his chair, whipping around to glower at the woman standing in his doorway.

“Don’t you people knock?!” he yelled.

“This is Anthea,” Mycroft introduced steadily. “She’s a very talented young woman – accountant, secretary, physical combat expert..she’s also a witch, and she would have killed you if I hadn’t ordered her off when you attacked me. She has also been in the house the entire time.”

The woman smirked and Bobby glared.

“B _alls_!”

“Now, what did you mean when you said, ‘it’s not just him’?” Mycroft asked politely.

“Rumor has it that demons are teaming up with Dick,” Bobby said bluntly, realizing that he was cornered.

“Demons?” Mycroft inquired.

“More specifically, Crowley.”

“Who’s Crowley?”

Bobby sighed. This was going to take a while.

* * *

 

The King of Hell knew to be careful when dancing in the spider’s web, and he knew _Aranea,_ the spider demon, better than any other demon in hell. James Moriarty was a rare treat in the underworld, and he had been around for a few thousand years – back when Lucifer was King and demons were tortured nearly as much as they did the torturing. Aranea had been the one to torture Crowley and to coax him off the rack with promises of sin. Even more unusual, it was said that when Aranea arrived in Hell, he remembered his real name, which made him something of an enigma. It also suggested that James was completely evil as a human as well as a demon. It was also shocking that he didn’t even bother to keep his true name a secret. James Moriarty was fearless.

He was _pure evil_ , which even Lucifer couldn’t attest to. The Devil was an Angel after all, even if he was a broken one.

James had a few flaws though: he was always bored, had little ambition to climb in the ranks of hell, and his personality was so _shifty_ that it was downright maddening just to talk to the guy. You couldn’t _predict_ him at all, which is precisely what made him dangerous, what made him a Spider.

Crowley both hated and respected his “maker”, but he wouldn’t trust him – not completely. This is why that when the Spider’s back was turned, Crowley snuck down into the furthest reaches of Hell and stood outside of the Angel Cage and waited.

“Crowley,” Lucifer’s voice eventually found him. A familiar scream split the air, followed distantly by the sound of an angel’s laughter. Michael was off torturing Adam Winchester, the abandoned half-brother; it was just another average day in the Cage of Hell.

“ _Aranea_ has returned. The Leviathans are free. The Winchesters are abouts with your little brother.”

“Castiel is besotted,” Lucifer said, almost fondly, stroking the bars of the cage with molten fingers. “The one marked by Death walks and Sam Winchester hears me more and more with every passing day. It won’t be long now.”

“You’ll be free,” Crowley said slowly, “and our deal still stands.”

Lucifer smiled. “Of course. After all, I never wanted Hell.” His eyes rolled upward. “You have my seal, Crowley, my word that cannot be broken. Now leave, and let the marked one deal with Aranea. Death’s power is not to be underestimated. Do not forget, and beware of the one with the pure soul.”

Crowley smiled. “Noted.”

And left.

 


End file.
